


A Crown of Peonies and made of memories

by Tell_me_about_it_shug



Series: And it's in the quality of the Gods [4]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Agamemnon fucking sucks, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Child Murder, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, Inaccurate Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, and im still bad at writing endings, implied revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23423185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tell_me_about_it_shug/pseuds/Tell_me_about_it_shug
Summary: She remembers the fall of steel and the taste of blood in her mouth, the give of her neck beneath the sword.Iphigenia
Series: And it's in the quality of the Gods [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1607104
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	A Crown of Peonies and made of memories

Do you remember the roundness of my face and the baby fat, not yet gone from my stomach and thighs? Recall the friendship bracelets woven from beads and dyed wool from days of girlhood that I had traded out just that morning for bands made of gold and silver. Do you remember my youth, Father?

Now recall the way sword fell.

Remember the way my body jerked beneath sharpened steel. Remember the gurgle of blood as I choked. See again, blood spilling down the temple steps and staining the silver of my wedding dress. Bring forth the memory of my limp and bloodied body. Do you remember the way the sword cut through my neck and caught in the bone? How my head touched the back of shoulder blades and hung loosely when you picked me up?

Taste again, the iron of my blood in the air, Father.

Was it easy telling my mother I died willingly? Did you have a hard time convincing yourself the same? When you burned my body at the pyre and told your men that a deer took my place, did you have to contend with your conscience? 

Did the blood you spilled bother you? When you take their daughters does my face come forward? When you kiss their girls can you taste my blood in your mouth?

Do you remember the way the peonies grew that year, Father? Remember the way Mother twisted them into a crown on the morn of my fourteenth birthday, just months before you would go to wage your war.

I remember, Father. I remember everything, from the dyed yellow silk of my wedding veil to the harsh look of the temple in the sunlight and its cool steps and the iron grip of the man who held me down as your ally cut through my neck, one time, two times. 

Father mine, I remember. I remember the cool breeze and the cheer of your armies when you left to pluck Troy from the grapevine. 

You did not think of me when you won your war. Perhaps there was no conscience to contend with at all.

I did not die willingly, Father. You killed me and the dead do not forget. Go home to my mother and brothers with your stolen woman as a prize.

I am made of memories and I am waiting for you.

**Author's Note:**

> Be safe! Even if quarantine fucking sucks stay inside.


End file.
